


A Farewell to Flesh

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, anonymous sex sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Venice's Carnevale gives Bedelia and Hannibal the opportunity to be who they truly are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Farewell to Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> My first Bedannibal fic- long overdue!

They didn’t fuck each other. One of her ground rules.

When he came to her on that night, hair slick with rain, person suit in tatters, and begged her to join him, Bedelia had set certain conditions. She would have been a fool not to. It was the only time she could ever recall seeing Hannibal truly vulnerable, and she would not relinquish the upper hand for all the all-too-brief moment that she had it.

Condition one: She would not join him behind the veil. She would not prevent his kills, but neither would she condone them.

Condition two: Neither would she partake in his “delicacies,” as he called them.

Condition three: She would accompany him in her capacity as his doctor and colleague. She  _might_  become his friend. She would not become his lover.

To her surprise, Hannibal assented to all three with naught but a solemn nod. Betrayal and loss had left him desperate.

And for awhile, as they travelled on a journey that resembled more of a Grand Tour than life on the lam, Hannibal toed the line she had set him exquisitely. In cafés along the West Bank and the shimmering beaches of St. Tropez, Bedelia provided companionship, conversation, and nothing more. She still gave him his weekly hour, many of which were devoted to the precarious nature of friendship, the poison sting of betrayal, and Hannibal’s continued fascination with Will Graham. He cooked elaborate (yet conventional) meals for her, and bought her a wardrobe full of couture to replace what she had been forced to leave behind in Baltimore.

It wasn’t until they arrived in Florence that Hannibal made the gentlest of proddings at the boundary she had constructed. He sat across from her, legs crossed idly at the ankle, bathed in the setting Tuscan sun and said, “I have been curious about something.”

“Yes?”

“Why you were so quick to foreclose a romantic relationship between us.”

“I would think the answer should be obvious to you, Hannibal. You were and still in some ways  _are_  my patient. A relationship between us would be a gross violation of professional ethics.” The words rolled off her tongue with a smooth, practiced air. Too smooth, she knew.

A strange smile played about his lips and something devilish danced in his eyes. “You ran away to Europe with the Chesapeake Ripper, Bedelia. Your professional ethics are already quite compromised in the eyes of the APA.”

“They’re my ethics, not the APA’s. I would be abusing the power of my position.”

Hannibal’s smile deepened into something almost resembling a schoolboy grin. “You are concerned that you would abuse me?”

Bedelia nodded primly. “Yes.”

Hannibal raised his glass of Chianti to her, altogether too amused for words. “You are extraordinary among women, Bedelia, you truly are.”

From that moment, something shifted in their relationship. No longer licking the emotional wounds Will Graham had inflicted upon him, Hannibal resumed his exercises in persuasion with her. It was Hannibal’s nature to test boundaries, physical and moral, his nature to dominate and devour. He did not press her (yet) to join him as his partner in blood and murder, but pushed harder at her last condition. Likely because he knew it was where her resolve was weakest. What followed was equal parts seduction and siege.

It was never anything blatantly lascivious, never anything one would call rude. Warm, possessive hands that lingered a shade too long on her shoulders when he took her coat. The weight of his leg against hers as they sat beside each other at the opera. A savoring gaze focused on her mouth while she took a measured bite of filet mignon. Bedelia accepted his touch, complicit. She did not advance, but neither did she retreat.

Eventually her own body turned traitor toward her mind. It was shameful to admit, but she had imagined his hands on her before, even before she knew what he was, even when he was just a very intriguing patient. Hannibal was certainly a dandy but he was a decidedly masculine one. She had become fixated on the full Windsor knot he always wore, so thick it was almost vulgar. On another man, it would have been overcompensation. But not with Hannibal. On certain nights, she found herself alone in her bed, manicured hand idly fondling her breast, wondering if the thickness of his cock matched the girth of his paisley tie. Imagined it was his tongue stroking her swollen clit to ecstasy instead of her own small fingers. On such nights she came quickly, silently, and with increasing dissatisfaction, leaving nothing but an empty ache between her legs.

She always washed her hands scrupulously afterwards, like a surgeon scrubbing for surgery. It was imperative she eradicate all trace of her desire from the pads of her fingertips and the beds of her nails, as Hannibal’s olfactory capabilities bordered on the supernatural. But all Hannibal ever needed was one mistake, and eventually he had it, patient predator that he was. One idle Tuesday after breakfast, he took her hand in his gallantly and raised it to his lips. Instead of kissing her fingers, he inhaled deeply, and she knew he smelled her desire as surely as if it had been  _L’Heure Bleue_. Bedelia tried to free her hand from his grasp, but he held her fingers tightly. His eyes when they met hers were those of a leopard about to pounce on its prey. The air between them grew taught and charged, and Bedelia thought for certain this was the moment when he would finally crash through the pitifully flimsy boundary she had constructed. To her great surprise, he relinquished her hand and walked away, bemused. As if she were a roast that was almost, but not quite, done.

It didn’t take her long to understand why. Hannibal had always preferred persuasion to brute force. Mere sexual gratification was not his true goal. He wanted the additional satisfaction of having her come to him. To know that she had violated her own ethics--not because he had forced her to, but because she could no longer repress her own lust.

Fall descended into winter and the hills of Florence gave way to the canals of Venice. They continued on as they were, a waltz scored to beats of desire, shame, and denial, danced along the edge of a carving knife. Hannibal became bolder in his touches and caresses, and took a perverse pleasure in introducing her as his wife in those rare moments when they socialized in public. He advanced and Bedelia resisted she supposed for the sake of resistance. For the sake of denying something to a man who never denied himself anything. The disturbing fact was she enjoyed the heightened tension between them—she always had—and she knew Hannibal did, too. She did not know how much longer they could draw out their little minuet before one or the other finally snapped.

One afternoon, Hannibal approached her in her study and handed her a crème colored envelope addressed to the charming Dr. Fell and his beautiful wife. Inside rested a hand-lettered invitation to a ball hosted in a large palazzo in a week’s time from one of their new jet-set acquaintances. Hannibal looked at her inquiringly. “Would you like to attend?”

Bedelia traced the lovely gold-embossed stationary in her hands. “It is a generous invitation. It seems rude to decline.”

Hannibal smiled, pleased that she shared his impeccable manners. “I am of the same mind. Social engagements do carry their risks, but as we will be masked, our risk is greatly minimized.”

“Carnevale is a season of excess before forty days of self-denial. Am I to take it you will be giving up meat for Lent?” she teased.

“The way you ask, it seems like you think I could not.”

“Can you?”

“I can and I have. I simply do not feel the need to honor God with my abstinence this year.”

Hannibal prayed to no god but himself, Bedelia knew.

Hannibal leaned against her desk an adopted a professiorial posture. “Some would say it is the self-denial of Lent that gives the excess of Carnevale its meaning. One could not exist without the other. The wearing of a mask allowed noble and commoner alike to express their truest selves.”

“Yes, and others say that the excess of Carnevale functions in part of a greater schema of social control. An anthropological safety valve of sorts. I’ve read Bakhtin, Hannibal, I attended university the same as you,” Bedelia said.

He inclined his head decorously and retrieved the invitation. “I’ll make all the arrangements, shall I?”

All too soon, the fated evening was upon them. Hannibal had engaged one of the finest  _mascareri_ in the city who had presented them with custom-made creations in record time. Hannibal had chosen their outfits and masks-- she had conceded to his love of all things sartorial and was willing to let him surprise her. For her he had ventured away from the traditional  _arlequinnos_  and  _columbinas_ and instead commissioned the face of a lioness dusted in copper and bronze. A floor-length gown of heavy silk complemented the mask, pooling around her feet like liquid gold. Bedelia dressed and admired herself in the mirror. She looked a perfect sphinx, a telling detail in how Hannibal perceived her. She could only wonder what he had chosen for himself.

She readied herself to leave and came across Hannibal bent over his recipe cards in the kitchen, decked out in an apron and shirt sleeves and in no way attired for the evening’s masquerade.

“You’re not coming,” she observed, coldly.

“I am sorry, but something has come up that requires my immediate attention,” he explained, and the hungry look in his eyes made it all too clear that the matter was not  _something_  but  _someone_.

“Can’t your appetites wait?” she asked, surprised at the sudden stab of disappointment she felt.

“No,” he said firmly. “But you should go. You look so lovely, it would be a shame to see such elegance go unadmired.” He raked a chaste, but gentlemanly gaze over her body.

Bedelia sniffed and felt her disappointment turn to ice inside her veins. “I will be sure to apologize to the hostess for your rudeness,” she said in her most wintery tone, turning away from him and leaving for the evening without a second glance in Hannibal’s direction.

The masque itself was something out of a dream. Ca’Foscari was lit up like a gilded birthday cake, windows blazing across the Grand Canal. She lost herself in a crowd of elegantly masked strangers, a few she thought she recognized and most she did not. Their hostess had laid out a spread of artfully crafted hors d’oeuvres that rivaled Hannibal’s most inspired creations. Bedelia deliberately danced and flirted with guests of both genders in a futile attempt to provoke the jealousy of a man that wasn’t there.

Late in the evening, having drank two or three more glasses of Prosecco than what would be considered prudent, Bedelia half-brushed and half-stumbled against a fellow guest on her return from the powder room. “ _Mi scoozi,_ ” she whispered in apology.

The stranger, dressed head to toe in an immaculate tuxedo, wore a leather mask adorned with the gilded antlers of a stag. Beneath his mask he smiled gently and muttered something in a Italian too quick and liquid for her to understand. He gallantly offered her his arm, and she took it, letting him escort her back to the ballroom.

Her tall and elegant companion gave a new meaning to the phrase “the strong and silent type.” He held out his hand in the expectation of a dance and she found herself accepting. The stag man spoke few words to her, and of those, Bedelia only caught little beyond “ _bellissima_ ” and “ _donna_.” Her Italian was passable but limited so late at night and after so many glasses of wine. After failing to engage the stranger in conversation, Bedelia simply gave herself over to the moment. She luxuriated in the feel of his body against hers and the delicious warmth that sprang up from her centre and had nothing to do with the wine. He drew her closer and she let herself rest her head against the lapels of his jacket. It had been too long, far too long, since she had let herself be touched by a man this way.

The music ended and the stag man drew himself back from her slightly. He said nothing, but his dark eyes held an unspoken question. Bedelia licked her lips, felt her entire face flush with desire. All around them, fellow guests had paired off in pairs, and threesomes, and moresomes with the same idea. She pressed her lips against his intently, breaking their kiss only to whisper, “ _Si_.”

The stag man took his hand in hers and efficiently whisked her away through the corridors of the palazzo from the noise of the ballroom and the prying eyes of the other guests. He opened a door, peaked inside, and grinned wickedly, gesturing grandly in the universal gesture that meant “after you.” Bedelia stepped inside the small room with its tall cabinets full of china and stemware and realized they were obviously in the butler’s pantry. Her masked companion swiftly turned the key in the lock and advanced on her with an excruciating slowness. Bedelia found herself backing up against the mahogany buffet, closing her eyes as she waited in breathless anticipation for his kiss. She did not have to wait very long. Impossibly strong arms pinned her to the wooden cabinet as lips claimed hers. She opened her mouth to moan, only to feel his tongue thrust inside of her, exploring only to conquer. She responded back in kind, fingers gripping the stranger’s dark hair as she tasted him and marked him with lips, teeth, and tongue. Her dress felt unbearably tight and she could feel her swollen nipples straining at the silk. Hands caressed the side of her breasts and wandered down to her backside, cupping the curve of her buttocks. His lips moved from her mouth to the sensitive side of her neck, lingering at her exposed collarbone. All she could do was grip his jacket collar in frustration—she needed so much more of him and she needed it  _now_. She threw her head back in abandon, reveling in such an excess of sensuality after so many months of denial. In the sweet, sinful pleasure of sex with a stranger.

Clever fingers dipped beneath the silk of her gown to fondle and tweak her hardened nipples, sending an electric current of pleasure down her spine and straight to her clit. Beneath his mask, the stag man’s eyes glittered as he teased her, the irises a devilish red-brown that Bedelia recognized all too well. She inhaled sharply and gripped his wrist. “Wait,” she gasped. Her companion stopped, but did not remove his hand from her breast, patient for her answer. Bedelia rested her hand upon his mask, debating whether or not to expose him and end the game. But…no. Hannibal had given her a wonderful gift, had given them both a way to have each other while at the same time a way for this night not to have happened at all. A night of pleasure between the sphinx lady and the stag man did not carry the same consequences as an unmasked encounter between Bedelia Du Maurier and Hannibal Lecter.

This was excess and denial all in one. A perfect paradox.

Bedelia smiled at her masked lover, breathless, and he cautiously smiled back. She let her free hand wander down the side of his face to his collar where she ruthlessly stripped him of his white tie. The man who was and was not Hannibal freed her breasts from the confines of her gown, bending down to nip and suckle at each one in turn. He teased and tortured her until each nipple was red and hard, until she was hopelessly, maddeningly wet.

She gripped his shoulders and aimed to push him downward. “Please… _per favore_ ,” she gasped, nearly too far gone to form the words. Her companion paused and wagged a finger at her in a gesture of mild rebuke. He backed away from her and began to unbutton his dinner jacket. He removed it and draped it over a chair with painstaking precision. Even if she had not already known it was Hannibal, such fastidiousness would certainly have given him away.

He returned to her and hefted her up against the lip of the china cabinet where there was just barely enough room for her to rest her bottom. One hand drew the hem of her gown up as the other caressed her smooth legs, tanned from so many days in the Mediterranean sun. When he finally drew her gown up to her waist he smiled at the surprise that waited for him there- she had forgone underwear that evening as the lines showed through her gown in a way that she felt ruined its elegance. She spread her legs wide for him and he dropped to his knees reverently before her. Never breaking eye contact, her masked lover dipped his head between her thighs. Without any preamble at all, his ravenous mouth attached itself to her swollen clit. She moaned aloud, arching her body toward him, hungry for her release. His technique was even more thorough and exacting than her wildest imaginings. A firm tongue tasted the most intimate parts of her, while long, elegant fingers filled her to the brim. Her hips bucked, rattling the china in the cabinet. She could feel his left hand gripping her right hip forcefully, drawing her closer for an even deeper taste. With his lips and tongue feasting upon her, he brought her at last to a shuddering, wordless release.

Bedelia felt her body go limp with pleasure and became aware of a sudden surge of tenderness toward her lover. The scientist in her knew it was nothing more than chemicals in the brain, a flood of oxytocin being gobbled up by hungry receptors. But the woman knew that the bond she shared with Hannibal was not something that could be rationalized by simple science.

He held her still, eyes turned away as if he was afraid to look upon her in this most private of moments. She placed her forefinger underneath is chin and tilted his gaze back to her. She expected him to look overly pleased with himself, a strutting peacock. Yet, beneath his mask, dark irises trembled with desire and need, with a lust so bad it must have hurt. She matched the intensity of his gaze, monitoring his every reaction, as her right hand explored first the firm planes of his chest and stomach before coming to stop at the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers skimmed the outline of his erect cock, nearly moaning in satisfaction herself when he closed his eyes and bit his lip in pleasure. Bedelia could gladly have kept him in agony like this for hours (and perhaps one day she would) but tonight she would have every inch of him and found she hadn’t the patience to deny either of them this any longer. A challenging gleam in her eye, she freed him from his trousers with an alacrity she didn’t know she had.

With a growl, her dark lover launched himself upon her. Muscular arms wrapped themselves around her and she wrapped her legs around his waist in return. Without any preamble at all, he plunged himself in her up to the hilt. Dripping wet as she was, there was still a brief twinge of pain as he entered her. He stilled for a moment, letting her accommodate herself to him. He filled her completely, as no man ever had. As she had always wanted him to. She captured his lips in hers again, tasting herself on his tongue. Her lover struck up a deliberate rhythm, so precise you could have set it to a metronome. Every thrust set the china rattling and sent shockwaves of pleasure from her G-spot to her clit. She lost herself in the wonderful feeling of having him inside of her, in the wantonness of this nearly public act with a man who had once been her patient. The wrongness and rightness of it sent her climbing toward a second orgasm. She dug her nails firmly into his buttocks as she came a second time, driving him deeper. As her muscles contracted around him she felt him shudder, moaning into her hair as he spent himself at last.

Bedelia closed her eyes and basked in the rose-tinted afterglow. She was dimly aware of her lover pulling away from her, and felt her heart ache just a little at the loss of his body and its warmth. Their cooling passion left her apprehensive, uncertainty popping up like mushrooms after a spring shower. What would the morning bring when they gazed upon each other, unmasked, perhaps for the first time?

The creak of the door hinge recalled her thoughts back to the present. Bedelia opened her eyes to find herself in the darkened butler’s pantry alone. Hannibal had vanished, disappearing into the night air like Cinderella after the ball.

*******

She awoke the next morning, as she often did, to delicious smells wafting from the kitchen: the sharp acidic bite of fresh coffee, the savory tang of eggs and cheese sautéing with fresh herbs. A glance at the clock near her bed told Bedelia that it was nearly afternoon and that they had both overslept.

There was no point in prolonging it. Bedelia schooled her face into its usual icy reserve, the elegant professional mask she had worn every day for Hannibal since the day she had met him. She prayed last night’s encounter had not left it cracked beyond repair.

Gathering her grey silk kimono about her like a suit of armor, she waltzed into the kitchen. “Good morning,” she said, deliberately casual.

Hannibal, still in his dressing gown as well, returned her greeting. “Good morning. Cappuccino?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured a shot of espresso followed by steaming hot milk into her cup. To top it off he sprinkled it with dash of nutmeg, just the way she liked it. “You stayed out very late last night.”

“I could say the same of you. I did not hear you come in,” she said, helping herself to a plate of Eggs Florentine.

He sipped at a glass of freshly squeezed blood orange juice while his predatory gaze drank her in. “You seem…refreshed.”

“I suppose.” Bedelia shrugged coolly in response and took a bite of her breakfast.

 “I take it then you found the masquerade…pleasurable?”

 _He doesn't know._ Bedelia repressed a small smile at the thought. Hannibal’s fishing was boyishly charming. “Oh, pleasurable enough.” She paused then added, pointedly, “You know it is very impolite to pry into a lady’s affairs, Hannibal.”

The most minute of frowns traversed his face. Hannibal was so sensitive when it came to manners, especially his own. “Of course. My most sincere apologies. I only ask because we have received another invitation. The Guggenheim museum is holding a  _bal_   _masque_ next weekend, a fundraiser. What do you say?” He slid a square of paper across the counter toward her, nearly the same violently orange shade as the juice in his hand.

Bedelia flicked her eyes over the invitation, felt pleasure begin to coil in the places that still ached deliciously from last night’s tryst. “Well, it is very important to patronize the arts.” Hannibal nodded and she let her eyes meet his, locking in on him with her most piercing stare. “And masks, after all, give us a chance to be who we truly are,” she said, aiming her words with the precision of an archer toward her target.

A wealth of micro-expressions spread across Hannibal’s face in that moment, surprise and awe chief among them. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words fell from his lips. Bedelia was greeted with the rare sight of Hannibal Lecter without something clever to say--where did she leave her camera? Finally, he simply shook his head in an almost sportsmanlike way, a player conceding victory to a worthy opponent. “I very much agree.” He grabbed her hand and kissed her open palm impulsively, causing Bedelia’s pulse to race. “And I am very grateful carnival season in Venice lasts another four weeks.”

Bedelia favored him with her most satisfied smile. Having the upper hand with Hannibal was a spice rarer than saffron.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from some of the folk etymology around "carnevale," ( _carne vale_ ) which can be interpreted as giving in to the pleasures of the flesh. 
> 
> Ca'Foscari is an actual palazzo along the Grand Canal but is no longer a private residence. It is currently used by the University of Venice.


End file.
